


Road/Sky

by wrennette



Series: Eden [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon Typical Swearing, DADT, Escapism, M/M, Motorcycles, after action, canon typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad takes the LT out for a spin on his racing bike. Sequel to Eden Lost</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road/Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving to LJ. Originally posted 2008.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fictional, and is in no way based on real events. No defamation, slander, or copyright infringement is intended. The author in no way profits from the writing of this fiction.
> 
> Edited lightly for typos, pronouns, etc. on archiving.

Fick's arms tightened around his waist as he opened up the throttle. He thought Fick might have tried to say something, but at these speeds, the wind snatched away any attempt at conversation. He grinned manically and poured on more speed. Fick's weight was warm and solid against his back, an anchor in the surreality of being back in America, back in California. The cool slick plastic of the helmet he had handed to Fick when he picked the officer up rested against his shoulder, and he grinned, gunning the engine just so Fick would tighten his arms again.

In the sharp hairpin turns, Fick clung to him like a limpet. He knew Fick wasn't scared. The man was a Recon Marine after all, even if he was an officer. He took some of the turns extra fast, extra sharp, the bike straining against his guidance, the asphalt bare millimeters from his heavy duty jeans with their reinforced knees that wouldn't really do jack shit if he miscalculated and let his body scrape across the hard deck. 

When he did though, Fick pressed even tighter against him, the insides of his thighs pressing against Brad's legs, holding on like a vise. Riding this fast, this close to out of control always made his blood sing. Doing it with Fick's weight warm at his back magnified the feeling a hundredfold. Eventually, he pulled in at a little greasy spoon, the engine purring down to idle before he keyed it off. Fick let go slowly, pulling off the helmet and stretching his back. 

"Nice," Fick said, understated as ever, but Brad could see the tiny spark of laughter in his eyes, the slight twitch at the edge of his lips that meant he was holding back a smile. Brad grinned broadly, couldn't really help it, but Fick smiled back, a big full smile that made Brad's heart skip a beat. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything too retarded, shrugging out of his leather coat now that the rays of the sun could catch up with them, warm his bare arms. 

Fick didn't remove his borrowed jacket, and somehow that pleased Brad. It was an old jacket of Brad's, nothing really wrong with, except that he had seen the one he wore now and liked it better. But it looked good on Fick, a little too long in the arm, slightly too broad in the shoulders from where Brad had stretched it out, but Brad sort of liked the way that looked on Fick. He didn't want to analyze too hard why. He knew the reasons, just didn't like staring them in the face, not when the sun was out and he was fully sober. So instead he let his pale gaze linger on Fick's capable hands for just a moment too long where they protruded, surprisingly delicate, from the cuffs of the jacket, and then they were going into the diner, sitting down and watching out the window, neither of them speaking. 

The waitress shuffled over, dozy eyed in the afternoon heat, yawning with boredom. They ordered breakfast and coffees, and she shuffled away again, and the kitchen was soon clattering awake. As they ate, Brad found himself watching Fick's hands and mouth a little too closely. He couldn't help himself, couldn't look away. Fick got up to use the mens part way through their quiet meal, and Brad leaned back against the padded vinyl of the booth, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This was not supposed to be the way it went. 

He had hoped this stupid homo feeling was some sort of fucked up combat stress reaction, his emotions latching onto the only competent officer in his entire chain of command, respect that had been exposed to too much heat, until it grew into something different. But if that was the case, his twisted respect - and he knew he couldn't reasonably call it _respect_ if it got him hard - was something that thrived just as well away from the desert, and that meant it probably wasn't just a combat stress reaction.

He sighed deeply, the Iceman mask dropping back down as he opened his eyes and straightened up. Hanging around with his commanding officer, who happened to give him a hard on just by _existing_ probably wasn't the best decision Brad had ever made. Then again, he wasn't sure he had made the decision with his brain. 

"Way to get led around by your dick, fucking homo," Brad breathed to himself, then took a sip of the crude grade motor oil they were serving as coffee, and by the time Fick slid back into the other side of the booth, he had himself squared away. 

"We should just keep going," Fick said softly after a while, looking up from beneath his thick lashes, long fingers tangled around his chipped stoneware mug. Brad blinked once, focusing in on Fick's full lips, and he felt his brows lower in confusion. 

"Just get on your bike, and see how far we can go. Just you and me Brad, and no one would be able to find us. They wouldn't be able to take that away." Brad blinked again, because that - it sounded like maybe Fick was having the same non-combat stress reaction as him. His hand slide the half foot across the table that separated it from Fick's hands, and Fick looked up at him more surely as their hands touched. 

"Just go," Fick continued, voice low, almost hypnotic. "Keep going, until one day, the road raises up and meets the sky." Brad swallowed thickly, because Fick's voice was lower than usual a bit rough, and so wistful it made Brad's ribs tighten painfully around his heart and lungs. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, then nodded. 

"Alright," Brad said simply, and Fick blinked at him, once, twice, then blushed and dropped his eyes. Brad had made up his mind though. He was doing this. Fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck the chain of command and the UCMJ and the world in general. He stood, peeling a a few bills out of his wallet, more than enough to cover both their meals and then some. He stood behind Fick, gripped his shoulder hard, slid his hand along the leather of the borrowed jacket and rubbed his thumb against the officer's neck. 

"I'll take you away," he breathed against Fick's ear, "maybe not forever. Maybe not even 'til the road meets the sky. But a day? A couple days? A week? I can give you that - Nate". He nearly choked on the officer's given name, and it felt awkward in his mouth, but if he was going to do this, he sure as hell wasn't calling him Sir or Fick.

Nate took a deep shuddering breath, and then he was standing too, Brad's hand falling away from his shoulder. They went silently to the bike, Nate climbing on behind Brad. He wrapped his arms around Brad's waist again, leaning up, balancing against the larger man's lean bulk and kissing him once, just behind the ear. 

"As long as we can steal," Nate breathed, and Brad shuddered, nodded, and pulled on his helmet. Nate pulled on his borrowed lid, pressed himself against Brad again, and the engine throbbed between his legs, and they were off, flying, out into the golden afternoon light, looking for the place where the road rose to meet the sky.


End file.
